


They were all doctors

by UlsPi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Death, Jewish Aziraphale (Good Omens), Jewish Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Other, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-21 20:53:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20699690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/pseuds/UlsPi
Summary: Eli wanted to say several things. He wanted to say that if there had to be begging, he'd rather Anthony begged for a kiss or suchlike. Better not to dwell on it. Handsome pathologists were not to be interested in soft, plump rabbis. He wanted to say that Anthony would never have to beg for anything, because Eli would give him anything willingly. How did that Heine's poem go? "And when you're once my wedded wife, you'll be an envied one, dear…" The poem was sarcastic and funny, and Eli wanted to cry, but still. He read it once as a child, and didn't catch any other meaning than that longing, however humorously, tone of a sparkling dream, of the longing left in the past, saved for funny stories told to grandchildren to make them blush. The humour was fully justified, though, if one had the audacity to long for Dr Crowley in all his dramatic goth glory and graceful awkwardness.





	1. Not the kids

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shaniacbergara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaniacbergara/gifts).

> CW: there's a child's death in there, and it's nobody's fault. But proceed with caution.
> 
> Dearest shaniacbergara, if it's too much or not to your liking, please let me know. I did promise to gift you anything Jewish, but if you don't like it, I'll ungift it.

The usual explanation Dr Crowley would offer when asked how he had become a pathologist, was "I don't like patients talking", and in general it was true. Even truer though, would be the explanation he had heard from his mother, a pathologist. She told her rebellious, endlessly curious, lanky red-haired son that pathologists knew more than any other physician, and Crowley had lived up to it, being considered one of the best. The biopsies he received came from all London, and mostly he was pleased.  
Then that particular biopsy came. Now, Crowley was very good and had a very good memory. He had a feeling he had seen this biopsy before. He brushed it away, but the notion didn't want to be brushed away. So Crowley called his friend and colleague who had sent him the biopsy.  
"Anathema? Hi, question. The biopsy you sent me today… Have I seen it before?"  
"Shit, I hoped you wouldn't recognise."  
"Come on, Dr Device, you are an oncologist. I'm going to be sad anyway."  
"You are going to be angry, Anthony, that's worse… anyway, remember…"  
"It's not the twins, is it?"  
"Yes, it is."  
Ethically, Anathema wasn't supposed to discuss her patients, to say the least, but she had never told Crowley the names or anything else. They just shared a bottle of good wine, and Dr Device told him about those adorable identical twins, too serene, too serious for their age, and one of them had a brain tumor, and to cut a long story short, it was Crowley that discovered that it indeed had been a malignant tumor. The boy died. Anathema and Crowley had two bottles of wine, sighed, remembered that such cases had been very rare, and Anathema had an inhuman rate of success. Now the second twin developed the same cancer, and Anathema had to tell the mother, still grief stricken that it was highly possible she would lose two children in a year.  
"And you know what she told me?" Anathema swallowed.  
"I don't want to know."  
"She said, "At least it will be quick, won't it? Don't want them to suffer"."  
"Almighty…" answered Crowley with anger.  
"Yes. Exactly. I take it it's malignant."  
"It is. Absolutely the same as the one his brother had."  
"Shit."  
"I know. Tell me about it."  
"Just told you. Could you pick me up after work today? I'm gonna need something strong after my appointment with her."  
"Sure, Anathema. Good luck, Dr Device."  
"Thank you for your help, Dr Crowley."  
Crowley through the years had seen many a biopsy. Many a biopsy he had recognised as malignant before anyone else could, therefore, however indirectly, Dr Crowley had saved many a life. It really helped that he didn't have to look someone in the eye and tell them. Nice, kind people like Dr Device did that.  
Dr Device had lost a few patients through the years. Pediatric oncology was either for heartless or the bravest and Dr Device was the latter. Dr Crowley could only admire her sheer will, which sometimes made him think that it was her will that would pull a child out, make each treatment work. They survived, they grew up, they sent Anathema pictures from their graduations and even weddings.  
Yet those twins, they somehow broke through Anathema's professionalism, and she had gotten attached. Of course she had told her supervisor about it, and let her best friend know what was happening. Unfortunately, Dr Device was the bloody fucking best, and other than old and venered oncologists there were no more options, and well, old and venered oncologists would quite often refer their patients to Dr Device. She had been called "the witch" among her colleagues, because one had to definitely sell one's soul to the devil to save that many, to spend that much time on each case.  
Dr Device called him a few minutes later.  
"Listen, I know you seldom do it and for a reason, but the parents want to meet you. Do you think you could handle it?"  
For all his air of spotless cool, for all his swaying hips and constant dark glasses (you can't walk around showing your eerily yellow eyes, can you?), for all his quirks and a vintage Bentley, Dr Crowley was as soft as a newborn rabbit. Of course he would see them, of course he and Anathema would get shamelessly drunk afterwards and maybe even share a cigarette or a dozen, of course they would wake up fully clothed and sigh with relief.  
"Still gay, then?" would ask Anathema fighting her headache to muster a smile.  
"Still asexual, then?" would grumble Crowley, losing his fight with the headache before even beginning it.  
It had happened exactly seven times, and they had known each other for twenty plus years, ever since they met at the John Radcliffe and bonded over their shared interest in house plants of all things. Anathema had always been brilliant at murdering each plant in cold blood, and Crowley had always been there to rescue the poor darling and revive it. Oh, the irony.  
When he entered Anathema's office, he saw two women, holding hands, and a bright-eyed blond man, so soft and round and oozing kindness and understanding, that Crowley felt he was melting into a puddle of goo right there. The man smiled at him, just a twitch of his beautiful lips, and actually each part of him was beautiful. He was a bit shorter than Crowley, which wasn't that difficult, and… and he was hot.  
Dr Crowley chided himself. Then cursed himself. Then excused himself, walked out of the office, Anathema, both women and the man looking puzzled, and called his mother.  
"Mom, I have a problem."  
"Darling boy, you are brilliant… also, check on that book I gave you. It might have an answer."  
"It's not about aneurysms, mom. It's worse."  
"Oh dear. Well, share it with me, mother's boy."  
"Hey, you raised me a Jew, I will forever be a mother's boy."  
"How very tiresome. What happened? You are much more brilliant than I have ever been. How may I help?"  
"Well… Anathema asked me to meet the parents of a patient… of two patients. One child is already dead, and another may be dead soon. They brought someone with them, and he's hot."  
"Darling, I would cite Freud and remind you how repression can lead to all sorts of awkward and overall wicked situations."  
"But?"  
"But you know it, and I'm going to stop inviting you over for Shabbat dinner if you had been repressing your natural inclinations. Just remember… your ethics and all that jazz. Gather more information. Wank like there's no tomorrow when you get home, and this is an order."  
"Alright then. Here I go."  
"Come on. Love you, Razi."  
"Oy vey. Don't call me that."  
"Razi, you have work to do. Bye."  
Crowley took a deep breath and returned to Anathema's office.  
"Yes, sorry about that. Jewish boy, had to talk to my mom."  
"Oh, you are a Jew too?" one of the women beamed, but just for a second.  
Crowley sat next to Dr Device. He did his best to turn deaf when Anathema introduced the women.  
"We brought our rabbi with us," one of them said.  
"Yes, we thought… Rabbi Eli had been so supportive… and…" mumbled another.  
"So, Dr Crowley is here to answer any of your questions," said Dr Device.  
"Totally," agreed Crowley, without looking at the hot handsome rabbi.  
"Are you sure?" asked the first woman.  
"That it's malignant? Yes. It's just the same as your… other son's."  
"That's punishment," said the mumbling woman suddenly and resolutely.  
"Dearest, don't say that," tried the first, the calmer one.  
"But it is! I listened to you, I… I let myself sin and run away with you, and now our children are dying. Yes, yes, it must be that. You agree, rabbi, don't you?"  
Rabbi Eli managed to look both angry and compassionate.  
"No, I don't agree. I know it's difficult for you, I know it was difficult to accept yourself and your wife, but I married you, and I believe in you."  
His shoulders were wide and sturdy, and Crowley wanted to hug him. Besides, he hated himself.  
"Listen, it's nobody's fault!" roared Dr Device, losing her calm.  
"No, it's mine. I know it, I know it… I want to return to my father, he is the real rabbi, not some pseudo Jewish shit you are," and the woman stormed out of the room.  
Her wife looked as calm as the sea before the storm.  
"That went down like a lead balloon," offered Dr Crowley.  
"Hey, rabbi, you are Masorti. Not even Reform or Renewal… don't take it close to the heart," said the eerily cool woman.  
"My dear, it's not the matter. She can't blame herself for this."  
"And she left before she could hear the pathologist out. Well, I still do. They are my children, and I want to know… what went wrong."  
"Alright, first things first," Dr Crowley remembered he was a doctor. "It's not your fault, it has nothing to do with anything you do. Cancer is… fuck, I hate this word, but it's ineffable. We know more about it than we did twenty years ago, but we still don't know enough. In the case of your children… Well, the type of tumor is extremely rare, but they are identical twins, so… it's not your fault."  
"Oh, I know it's not my fault. But I escaped our community when I was sixteen and my wife, when she was about 35. It was difficult, and I was persuasive. I've loved her since we were children, and… she had been married off to a young rabbi, and she hated every moment with him. She used to say she had been lucky to be infertile. Biologically, the boys are mine and mine only, but of course she loves them."  
"No doubt about that."  
"Tell me… tell me about it."  
Crowley looked at Anathema. She nodded.  
"Ok… I think, Dr Device has already explained it to you…"  
"I want to hear it from you. You are like me, Dr Crowley, aren't you? You are queer."  
"I am queer too," muttered Anathema under her breath. "I… am. How…"  
"Intuition. And Dr Device mentioned that "wicked gay pathologist who could recognise anything before anything recognised itself".  
The woman smiled.  
"Right… so… Ngk… yes… the type of tumor your children have is called ependymoma. It can be benign or malignant. In your sons' case it's malignant. Your son's, I mean your late son's tumor had been discovered late, and it's not anybody's fault. With this one… Listen, I don't treat people, only pieces of them."  
"But you were alert, and attentive, and as I have told you, I think the surgery and chemo might help. It was too late last time, we still have a chance now, and I believe you should take it."  
Dr Device breathed heavily.  
"Listen to her," recommended Dr Crowley quietly.  
"There is hope," said Rabbi Eli softly and took the woman's hand. "You should listen to them. Neither Dr Device nor Dr Crowley strike me as people who would feed a false hope, however wicked one of them is," and Rabbi Eli winked at Dr Crowley. Dr Crowley grabbed Dr Device's hand.  
"Oh, he is wicked and wickedly nice," Anathema laughed, trying to get her hand free from her friend's grip. Unsuccessfully.  
"So… I'm going to talk to my wife, but I think we should start the treatment ASAP."  
"I'm booking you for a surgery this moment," Anathema turned to her computer, then picked up her phone.  
"Are you calling Tracy? You should be calling Tracy," said Crowley.  
"Of course I'm calling Tracy, you idiot," answered Anathema.  
"Hi… yes, Marge, I'm sorry to disturb you, but… yes, I know what time it is, I need your help. Do you think you could…"  
Dr Device got up and began pacing the room.  
"Dr Tracy is an amazing surgeon. She has done things no one else would," explained Dr Crowley. "She taught both of us."  
"Neither of you are surgeons," remarked the woman pensively.  
"Indeed. But we learned a lot from her anyway. Only a total ignoramus would skip her lectures… she just… knows how the body works, and also, she can sometimes explain it."  
"It's a small world, isn't it?" asked Rabbi Eli with a smile.  
"Ngk," agreed Dr Crowley.  
"You are so eloquent," remarked Rabbi Eli, indicating that he was enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.  
Dr Device returned to them and proudly announced that she had booked a surgery in a week's time.


	2. The rear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Jewish matchmaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 929 is the number of chapters in Tanakh (Torah plus Prophets plus Writings). There's a brilliant app and a website dedicated to the study of a chapter per day. It's wonderful. There are groups of people who get together weekly or once/twice a month to study. There are enthusiasts that gather daily to study.  
Dad yomi is the same shit, but concerns Talmud, i.e. a daily study of a page of Talmud. It's wonderful too. This Jew is not there yet.

"How about you google him?" suggested Anathema, very drunk, very benevolent.  
"Google who?" asked Crowley, although some ineffable part of his brain knew the answer.  
"The handsome rabbi. You were staring at him the whole fucking time."  
"I was not! I was professional!"  
"You were. But also, staring. Longingly!"  
"What's that tone for?"  
"I don't know, Anthony. But that wine... it's just awesome!"  
"I'm going to pray for the boy!"  
"For this, you'll have to go to a synagogue! So, google the fucking rabbi!" Anathema poured herself another glass and passed the bottle to her friend.  
"He's Masorti. I'm Reform."  
"Ahhh, whatever. Progressive, or so you explained it to me."  
"Did you know that Maimonides was a physician? Also, Nachmanides. And Yehuda Halevi."  
"Who are those people?"  
"You… you… Presbyterian girl!"  
"I am. So what?"  
"Maimonides is the best," declared Crowley and fell on the floor, happily.  
"Will I have to explain your condition to your mother again? Because I wouldn't do it, no siree. I'll stuff myself with that kugel and stay silent."  
"Shiksa… why do I love you so much?"  
"I'm your only friend, Anthony, because you are a living embodiment of every stereotype they have about pathologists."  
"Hey, I save lives. Indirectly. I diagnose… humans!"  
"That you do, you snake. Your hips are sinful. Google the rabbi!"  
"Well, you google him!"  
"Challenging me? I will!"  
Anathema took her phone and googled the rabbi.  
"Shakespeare Road, Finchley, London. Wanna go there?"  
"I will not! It's creepy. I can't…"  
"Come on. People die all the time, patients die all the time…"  
"Not yours."  
"Ok, mine don't die all the time, but they sometimes do, and life has to prevail. You have a… you are… you think Eli is hot!"  
"Nothing to think about. He is hot. It's an axiome, Anathema."  
"Life has to prevail. Love can be found in the most terrible places, and it's all a part of God's plan! Love has to be everywhere."  
"You get along without it just fine, Anathema."  
"False. I love Newt. I'm just not sure he wants an asexual partner."  
"Why not? You are incredible! Getting into your pants, pardon under your skirts shouldn't be the deal breaker!"  
"You think so, he might not."  
"You googled the rabbi. You will ask Newt out."  
"I will not! Besides, he's just a nurse."  
"Snobbish pediatric oncologist!"  
"That's mean!"  
"That's true!"  
"I'll ask him out only if you ask the rabbi out!"  
"I will not!"  
"Then neither will I!"  
They kept drinking and arguing for the rest of the night. It was Thursday, or rather it had been Thursday, and Friday morning Dr Crowley was regretting every decision he had ever made. Dr Device was drinking her coffee with a great sense of purpose. She was scary that way.  
***  
Crowley chose to sit in the farthest row from the rabbi. His mother was looking into her prayer book.  
"It's been a while, dear boy, since I entered any other synagogue... But I love that they have…"  
She went on. Crowley could only see Rabbi Eli, handsome, soft, smiling, leading the service with such feeling, he might as well have been a chasidic rabbi, but like, the original one.  
After the prayers, Crowley's mother walked up to the rabbi, and Crowley was afraid she would engage in some Jewish mother matchmaking. He had greatly underestimated his mother. She was thanking Eli, and Eli was smiling at her, the supernova of a human that he was.  
"Do you have 929 meetings?" asked Crowley smugly. He couldn't think of anything else to ask.  
"Oh, I wish!" said Eli. "But not enough people. If you join us, then it might be sensible to begin. Had to settle for daf yomi in the meantime, although I'm behind schedule."  
"I did daf yomi when Anthony was born," informed Ela Crowley proudly.  
"Oh my, that's impressive," said Rabbi Eli, properly impressed.  
"Yes, nothing else to do, and I don't like children's books and such like, so I ruined my baby's psyche with Talmud," she laughed.  
"I did daf yomi too. I'm on my third round, by the way," said Crowley, also very proud of himself.  
"Oh, no need to shame me," Eli lifted his hands in surrendering gesture.  
"I am not. And Anthony is just an ass," Ela said lovingly. It began resembling matchmaking too much, and Crowley dragged his mother out.  
"Were you trying..?"  
"Razi, behave yourself. You are beautiful, brilliant and a proper bitch. You don't need matchmaking."  
Ela settled into the Bentley and made in impatient face.  
"I can't ask a rabbi out."  
"Of course you can! He's Masorti. Enlightened. Handsome. Smart. Lovely arse, if I may say so."  
"Mom, you never liked a man's arse."  
"You have, that's enough for me. He has a perfect arse, judging by your standards."  
"Mom!"  
"Hey, dear, I'm your mother. My role is to be infuriating. I made you a babkah."  
"You can't bribe me with a babkah."  
"I'm not bribing, I'm tempting. Besides, I'm still trying to make a babkah as good as yours. Now, the rabbi of the magnificent arse. You are going to ask him out, and you will get married and adopt and make me a proud grandmother, and that's an order."  
"Jesus…"  
"No, let's not talk about that kind delusional boy. I have my own kind delusional boy to take care of."  
***  
Ela Hai was a very close friend of Rabbi Leah of the Reform synagogue Anthony had been attending since he was an infant.  
Yet, that Saturday Anthony was nowhere to be seen, and Ela confided into Rabbi Leah that her baby boy had gone to a Masorti synagogue on Shakespeare Road.  
"There is a rabbi there who has the most beautiful arse in the world, and I hope Razi is smart enough to ask him out," Ela smiled smugly.  
"Ela, you are obnoxious," concluded Rabbi Leah with a laugh.  
"I am. But I want him to be happy. Don't you?"  
"Oh, I'd be damned if I didn't," admitted Rabbi Leah.  
***  
"You mentioned a 929 meeting, didn't you?" asked Rabbi Eli after Kiddush.  
"I did," said Crowley, guiltily.  
"What would you say, if we discuss that terrible business with Bathsheba? Just the two of us?"  
"It's a date, Eli. I mean, it's obviously not, but I'd love to."


	3. Enough of the bastard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Absurd humour and an insane amount of mutual want. But like, unrecognized.

Time went on, because time is a bitch. Or so Dr Crowley felt.  
Rabbi Leah was curious, so he called her and explained, as honest as he could:  
"Alright, there's that Masorti rabbi…"  
"Oh, I know, Raziel, your mother told me."  
"She doesn't know how to shut up, does she?"  
"She doesn't, and don't you dare talk about your mother like that. You've never been in love, Raziel, and I'm very happy for you. Also, I googled him, and he's brilliant."  
"Oh really? Didn't notice."  
"Raziel, your sarcasm is unwelcome. He has a soft spot for Nachmanides."  
"Oh my… Shit!"  
"Now, don't take it personal. I know your penchant for Maimonides, but they all were doctors, physicians, like you."  
"Yeah, but they talked to their patients, and I did everything to avoid that."  
"Whatever. Brush up on your Nachmanides, you should be fine."  
***  
"I'm telling you that David was a rapist," proclaimed Rabbi Eli and Crowley wasn't used to argue with a rabbi, no matter how Reform his education had been.  
"I agree… but I disagree."  
"Elaborate," asked Eli, and Crowley realised that he could never refuse Eli anything.  
"Well, you see, I think that Bathsheba was a smart woman, very clever. She could never love her warrior husband, but the poet-king, the shepherd-king, the king who chose to stay far from war that time… I don't trust the rabbis who said she had decided to seduce him, but she definitely liked him. He was far more interesting to her than that brutish obedient officer. To hell with him, she must have thought, I want me that handsome king."  
"Have you noticed, my dear, that we've been talking about it for several weeks now, and we must be well into…"  
"Another rape, right."  
"Tanakh is grisly… sometimes. I like talking to you very much, though, so I don't really care if we get to be on schedule."  
Eli smiled. Crowley hated his smile, no, he loved it, but he hated what it did to him. It melted him to the core, it made him daydream, made him all soft and pliant.   
"I'm sorry you couldn't start the group meetings."  
"It's alright, Anthony, I don't mind. It's a bit… infuriating that several people agreed, then did the research and drastically changed their opinion."  
"Idiots."  
"I shouldn't be judgmental," Eli blushed a bit.  
***  
Eli was intending to ask Crowley to go up to the Torah from the second Shabbat the good doctor came to his synagogue. But of course, life or the Almighty had other plans.   
First, came his mentor and all her family, which took all seven aliyot like they hadn't done it enough, but it was the polite thing to do.   
Second, there was a bat mitzvah of one of the girls in the congregation. Her whole family arrived, and took all seven aliyot like they had never done it before. Still, it was the polite thing to do.  
Third, a member of his congregation was getting married. Two whole families came, and took all seven aliyot like there was no tomorrow. Yet, it was the polite thing to do.  
Fourth, Eli's family came. All four of his bully siblings with their bully families. They considered themselves learned and esteemed. The world in general disagreed and largely preferred their "soft little brother", but bullies have a very strong immunity against truth. He called them up to the Torah because of course it was the polite thing to do, but mostly to let them embarrass themselves in front of Eli's adoring congregation. Their spouses were just as bad. The whole thing turned out to be a perfect disaster and they swore to never return to visit Eli's synagogue, calling it a blasphemous place.   
To add insult to injury and even more freude to Eli's schadenfreude, Crowley came up to say hello, and Eli's siblings and their spouses looked at the man disapprovingly.  
"What is this?" asked Gabriel. Eli almost died from second-hand embarrassment but found enough courage to say, looking up at the impossibly beautiful doctor in a colourful Bukharian kippah:  
"This is Dr Crowley. He is the newest member of my congregation and a brilliant pathologist. You should see him with a knife."  
Crowley's eyebrows flew up to his hairline and he smiled wickedly, showing his sharp teeth.  
The Fells spontaneously combusted and immediately took their leave.  
"So sorry, my dear, for making you look like a… demon. I'm afraid I have abused your air of impeccable cool and your profession. Can you forgive me?"   
Eli looked both ashamed and deliciously… naughty. Also, deep down inside Eli was burning like a furnace or, alternatively, like Crowley's hair.  
"Ask me again on Yom Kippur, rabbi."  
"Oh, I will, dear boy, I will. How can I make it up to you?"  
Suddenly Crowley was inspired, and had Anathema been there, she would have reminded her friend that his bursts of inspiration had always ended up poorly, to say the least. She would have said:  
"Remember how you drove through London with two punched wheels? Or how you told me you absolutely had to boil an egg in a microwave?"  
Alas, she wasn't there. She was asking the shy nurse Newt Pulsifer out. Crowley couldn't just let it go.  
"You… you are…"  
"What, an aardvark?" asked Rabbi Eli, very rabbinic, very… wise. And naughty. And sexy. And bitchy to the point of absolutely no fucking return.  
"Aardvarks definitely have more… exquisite manners."  
Eli pouted. Crowley fell head over heels, and then some, and then remembered that he had already done it but repeated the process for the sake of scientific research.  
"How about we have lunch?" suggested Crowley, proud of himself, because he could barely breath and still managed a full sentence.  
"I don't spend money on Shabbat and I drive only in case of certain death."  
Eli was now properly ashamed and improperly adorable.   
"Dear rabbi, I walk here every Friday evening and every Saturday morning."  
(Oh, thought Eli, that explains his sport like and ridiculously tight outfits.)  
"Oh…" said Eli out loud.  
"Yes, and I made babkah. With chocolate. And I made vanilla ice cream."  
"You are a demon, my dear. Tempting a rabbi, and on a Saturday no less."  
"I'm a pathologist. But if I were to tempt you…"  
"Temptation accomplished!" Eli beamed. And wiggled. Inside of Dr Crowley's brilliant, utterly professional head the clear voice of his mother boomed something about arses.  
They walked back to Crowley's apartment, and their steps rhymed all the way through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shabbat shalom


	4. We had crepes!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shopping, fluff, ducks, lunch, more fluff.

Crowley learned a lot from his mother. Apart from being read particularly fascinating pieces of Talmud for the first seven years of his life, he learned Hebrew and how to use a microscope and relatively early, how to prepare biopsy tissue for examination (not her job, but hey, it was interesting, in her eyes). Was glorious, by the way, he threw up for days, then overcame it and asked for more. His mom loved him dearly and had been sure she had traumatised her darling boy for life ever since.  
All of which is not the point, and neither are dolphins. Ela Crowley cooked with an effortless skill of an experienced wizard. Recipes could go and throw themselves from any wall high enough to obliterate them. She knew chemistry, so thank you very much, she knew what to do and how to receive the appropriate, if not always desired, effect.   
Dr Crowley combined that skill with loyalty to recipes that would have made any rabbi suspicious. One has to be that attentive to the Divine word, or to the rabbinical word, but not to cooking books. Crowley had loved cooking books for their pictures and useless texts. Other than that they couldn't hold a candle to Maimonides.  
Speaking of the good rabbi and a very good physician…  
"That was scrumptious, dear boy, but even your amazing gravlax will not drag me into a discussion about Ramban and Rambam."  
"Whyever not?" Crowley was offended. His gravlax had saved many a disastrous date of his, and there had been only a handful of dates, all of them disastrous before gravlax, tolerable after and peacefully resentful in the end.  
"I don't perceive it as a competition. They are completely different, brilliant, each in their own right, and I just decided back in the rabbinical school that I want to focus on Ramban, because I don't agree with him, ever, and I was interested in digging deeper and finding… I don't know, something."  
Crowley rested his chin on his hand and said wistfully:  
"You are adorable."  
Eli blushed, and got even more adorable. Right now Eli was there with universe and human idiocy as examples of infinity.  
"I have never… I mean, Ramban is many things but not adorable."  
"That's true! That's my point!"  
"Maimonides is even less adorable."  
"I'm not looking for the adorable in Maimonides. His clarity is precious. The way he thinks is just… it's beautiful. I find disagreeing with Rambam more agreeable."  
"This is a very Wilde worthy turn of phrase."  
"Why, thank you."  
"You are welcome. May I ask something personal, Anthony?"  
"I wear dark glasses because my eyes are eerily yellow."  
"No, that's not that. Thank you, anyway. Why did you start coming to my synagogue?"  
"Ehm… wanted a change?"  
"From what?"  
"From my usual synagogue."  
"But why? Does it have anything to do with…"  
"I tried very hard not to hear their names. I haven't seen them."  
"I understand. They are with their boy all the time. Have you spoken with Dr Device?"  
"I have. I don't know how much you know."  
"I know that there's a very good chance for full recovery."  
"I don't want to talk about it. Please, Eli, I'm begging you."  
Eli wanted to say several things. He wanted to say that if there had to be begging, he'd rather Anthony begged for a kiss or suchlike. Better not to dwell on it. Handsome pathologists were not to be interested in soft, plump rabbis. He wanted to say that Anthony would never have to beg for anything, because Eli would give him anything willingly. How did that Heine's poem go? "And when you're once my wedded wife, you'll be an envied one, dear…" The poem was sarcastic and funny, and Eli wanted to cry, but still. He read it once as a child, and didn't catch any other meaning than that longing, however humorously, tone of a sparkling dream, of the longing left in the past, saved for funny stories told to grandchildren to make them blush. The humour was fully justified, though, if one had the audacity to long for Dr Crowley in all his dramatic goth glory and graceful awkwardness. Eli caught a glimpse of it, when he introduced Crowley to his obnoxious siblings.  
"I liked you," said Crowley honestly. "I wanted to see you… in action. I don't regret it. More wine?"  
"Yes, please, dear."  
His memory most helpfully and cruelly set the poem in front of him: "And if you should scold, I will not curse, 'twill be a matter of course, dear; but ah, should you disdain my verse, I'll get me a divorce, dear."  
As if.   
The food, the wine, Crowley's sharp chin on his sharp hand, the overwhelming smell of spices and luscious plants that filled the whole flat, all of it conjured into a tidal wave of impending disappointment, of refusal, of mockery, and Eli wanted to leave immediately.  
"Have I offended you?" asked the pathologist softly.  
"No, not at all, my dear. I'm just… drunk, I guess. You cook so very well."  
"Thank you. So I'm told, mostly by Anathema, I mean Dr Device, and my mother."  
"I'd listen to them both. Maimonides wouldn't."  
"Neither would Nachmanides."  
"You are right."  
The words flew all over Eli's mouth. I'm lonely, he thought, I'm a rabbi, I should have been married years ago, which of course would require coming out… But his congregation, unlike his family, loved him, and he did his best to keep deserving that love.  
"Rabbi, why aren't you married?" asked Crowley, his chin on his hand, his whole body like a line written by a Jewish physician in Medieval Arabic, all beautiful movements and ineffable meaning.  
"I'm asking because my Rabba, that is Rabbi Leah, she refused to get married until each member of her congregation could get married, and when it happened, she discovered she had been married to her congregation all along."  
"A gluttonous rabbi is not that much of a catch, and I wouldn't want my partner to slave in the kitchen and then sigh over the family budget because their spouse required a yearly change of clothes."  
"That's dumb, Eli… Sorry. I always buy women's clothes, the sizes suit me better, but women's clothes are always more expensive. Sometimes, when Anathema buys herself a pair of trousers, and it happens like, once in a blue moon, mostly when we are both drunk and online, she hands them down to me… The amount of soft plaid pants in my closet is ridiculous."  
"I love plaid. It's stylish."  
"It used to be. Like, when Nachmanides was a baby."  
They laughed again, and as their steps before, their laugh rhymed too, and rhymed beautifully. Heine would have loved it. He would have mocked it, but would have loved it all the same.  
"It's getting colder… I mean, it should, Rosh Hashanah is nearing, and… How about… How about we go shopping together tomorrow?"  
***  
No decision should be made while drunk. That was for sure. Yet, Dr Crowley didn't forget. He drove Eli home once Shabbat was over (they said Havdalah together), and promised to pick the rabbi up the next morning.  
Unfortunately, he didn't forget, and as Eli was making himself his tea, he saw the Bentley swaying like its driver, parking ungracefully, and Crowley sauntered vaguely out of his car. Eli opened the window, and Crowley looked up and smiled. There was that Provençal poem (he dearly loved poetry) about the desire sharper than an arrow et cetera, but now Eli could certainly relate to the troubadour who had found a good simile and went on about it for what had seemed like forever to a twenty-year-old Eli.   
"Coffee?" mouthed Eli down.  
"Sure," answered Crowley brightly. "As soon as you let me in, rabbi."  
They spent half an hour in silence, with their cups, Crowley carefully bringing it to his thin lips every now and then and taking sips of bitter black coffee.  
"They call it botz in Israel. Mud," supplied Eli when silence became too charged for him. In such silence they had discovered electricity, he thought.  
"You lived there?" asked Crowley, and no man ever should be smiled at like that. It should have been in the ten commandments right after Shabbat stuff. No, right after "I am your Lord God, you shall not have other gods beside me". You shall never smile like that at anyone, because with your smile you shall destroy cities, the otherworldly angel of death… Eli had to stop thinking about Crowley that way. He must have had a lot of other people to… fraternise with.  
"Yes, I studied there, in the Schechter."  
"Wow. You are awesome. I volunteered on a kibbutz for a year or so. Was wicked, I mean great. One day, when I'm a proper married Jew, I'm going to return there."  
Also, Moses, dear, right after the smiling, write down something about very tempting and equally unrealistic promises.  
"Are you sure you want to go shopping with me?" asked Eli timidly.  
"Of course I am. But if you are uncomfortable with it, then… anything you want. I could always return to the Bart and do the week's worth of work and just stare into my microscope longingly for the rest of the week."  
"I have very old-fashioned tastes and I take years in the fitting room."  
"Then I'll have to borrow some of your Maimonides. I'd agree to Nachmanides gladly, too. If you have that Heschel's book on prophets, that would be the best."  
Eli let himself sigh dramatically, and pulled said book from the bookshelf right next to him.  
"You keep Heschel in the kitchen?"  
"Glutton. And love Heschel. My favourite things, in one place."  
"Adorable… I need a thesaurus, need to find some other words besides adorable."  
Eli tried smiling. He tried harder.   
No way.   
"Rabbi, am I imposing?"  
"No. I'm just an idiot."  
"You are not. And I love the way you make coffee."  
"I will be very stressed, the shop assistants will make fat-shaming comments…"  
"I'm gonna take a biopsy from each of them, and from the most unpleasant places. And I will not look at those biopsies, ever."  
"Demon."  
"Guilty. Come on, let's go, those tartan thingies won't buy themselves."  
***  
Eli didn't know anything about shops. Crowley, of course, knew how to use the internet, apart from websites dedicated to Hebrew, Arameic, Talmud, 929 and all sorts of online libraries.  
He was looking in the mirror, that pair of trousers Crowley had brought him, fitting perfectly, when he heard a languid voice of a boy that had been offering his help, regardless of how many times he had been told no.  
"You could have had it so much better, honey. That fat chap… mustn't be your type, really."  
Eli was ready to accept it as divine truth when Crowley said:  
"You have jaundice, I suspect anemia. You look like an insomniac, also anemia. I would make an appointment with your doctor, if I were you. Now, my perfectly healthy, beautiful, sexy friend would never let me walk around like that. Maybe you should find yourself someone like him."  
Eli opened the curtain, stunned.  
Crowley looked his way and exhaled too loudly to be proper.  
"Sorry, Eli. You look really nice in those. I found you a shirt," Crowley handed the rabbi a cream coloured soft (tartan) shirt as if it had been a peace offering.  
"Also," remarked Crowley turning back to the panicking shop assistant. "There is a lovely knitted vest over there, I want it in cerulean, size L, and not a size bigger. While you are at it, I want a dark blue one, size S. Would you be so exceedingly fucking kind?"  
Before the boy went away, Crowley fished in the pocket of his black parka and handed him an apple.  
"Eat it. Good for anemia. It's washed."  
***  
"That was very kind of you," said Eli back in the car.  
"Shut up," replied Crowley blushing. "Want an apple too?" he took his hand off of the steering wheel, fished again in his pocket and offered the rabbi the fruit.  
"You are indeed a demon," said Eli quietly, accepting the apple. "Why do you carry apples in your pockets anyway?"  
"You said you liked snacks, so I thought… Apples are a snack, but a healthy one, so it spares you a guilt trip to guilt land. I meant it, by the way."  
"What?" Eli found it extremely difficult to breathe.  
"I don't diagnose people by their appearance, I prefer you know, thin slices of people to diagnose them, but I was being naughty. So I do hope you are perfectly healthy, but I'm absolutely sure that you are beautiful and sexy, not to mention kind and gentle. How about we go to the park? We could feed the ducks? I might have some more apples in my pockets. Quite sure I packed raisins and almonds too, but this coat has too many pockets, so it might take some time to find them."  
"Sounds good," said Eli, and he tried to say it as quietly as possible. He wanted this moment, in the car, hidden and close to each other, to be quiet.  
***  
They opted for the St James' Park. Having sat on a bench, Crowley pulled a Leatherman out of one of his magic pockets, and then another two apples.   
"Could you give me a hand, rabbi?" he asked playfully. Eli didn't understand what he meant but outstretched his hand.  
"Make it a cup," Crowley smiled. He began cutting apples into small bites, and yes, his siblings had to see Anthony with a knife. There was such calm domesticity to the gesture: he was cutting the apples, deft fingers, effortless movements, and Eli's hand folded into a cup was getting heavier with each falling bite. The ducks had noticed them and began their impatient siege.   
"Greedy buggers, huh?" said Crowley wiping the knife with the hem of his shirt.  
"Well, you are tempting them, my dear."  
"I think, I'm just trying to live up to the image of me you created for your arrogant arseholes of siblings. Pardon… they are still your siblings. Eli, I'm ruining this day, but it's unconsciously done. Maybe I'm an idiot."  
"Or maybe I just that much holier-than-thou, and while I would never allow myself to say such a thing or let such a thought occur to me, I think I must thoroughly agree. Anthony?"  
"Yes, Eli?"  
"I… May I give them what they're waiting for before they devour us whole?"  
"Oh, absolutely. It's a case of life and death, rabbi."  
Eli threw the apple bites to the ducks, as Anthony began to search his coat for raisins and almonds. Once he found them, he handed both paper bags to Eli, stretched out his awfully long and thin legs in skinny jeans and looked around pleased.  
"It's a nice day. I'm glad I get to spend it with you, Eli."  
"The feeling is mutual, obviously."  
"Obviously," mocked Anthony with a laugh.  
"What are your plans for the rest of the day?"  
"We went shopping, and apart from that last shop it has been nice, we are feeding ducks… Now, I gather, it's time to consider lunch. Homemade? Or out?"  
"Homemade implies your cooking. I can't cook, I just eat."  
(It should be noted that their 929 meetings for Eli were a continuation of Kiddush, as he kept enjoying cucumber sandwiches, challot, crackers with cream cheese and chocolate chip cookies as they were discussing another grisly passage from Tanakh. Crowley abused his dark glasses by using their cover as an excuse to admire the sheer joy on Eli's face as he feasted.)  
"Yes… you didn't seem to have any complains about my cooking."  
"Oh no, my dear, I just don't want you to slave in the kitchen."  
"Eli, I was taken out of Egypt, and being enslaved by another Jew is fine, remember?"  
"Not fine, my dear, there's nothing fine about slavery."  
"I'd slave for you," Crowley casually shrugged. "But I love cooking, so tell me what you want, and I'll make it. Anything you want. We could go grocery shopping!"  
***  
Crowley made red lentil soup with coconut cream and just the right amount of chili pepper. He baked two doradas with basil and tomatoes. He prepared garlic butter and they spread it on warm baguettes.  
Then, to finish the sweet torture and after a bottle of Petite Chablis, Crowley abruptly stood up and announced that he was going to make crepes.  
And he did, dancing around the kitchen, cutting apples, smashing blackberries.  
"Do you know what my favourite cooking show is, rabbi?" asked Crowley sliding a perfect serving to Eli across the kitchen isle.  
"I say, "Hannibal", suggested the good rabbi.  
"Yes," Anthony was eerily silent.  
"Luck of the devil. These are delicious, my dear. You have defeated my favourite crêperie in Paris."  
"Now you have to show it to me! I want to know my hated rival."  
Eli was too busy savouring each bite to think clearly. Crowley felt inspired yet again, and yet again Dr Device wasn't there to dissuade him. She was having a date with the smitten nurse Newt.  
"How about we go to Paris next Sunday?" proposed Crowley, too drunk to be cautious. Caution to the wind. He pensively turned the music on and Mark Knopfler who couldn't care less, supported him with "It takes love over gold and mind over matter…".  
"Oh, I love this song!" Eli exclaimed happily.  
"I prefer "The telegraph road"", answered Crowley.  
"Oh, yes, especially…"  
"So what about Paris?" Crowley repeated his question before the rabbi could keep on talking about telegraphs and such like and particularly about that part where Knopfler recited something about "I had your head on my shoulder and your hand in my hair". Wicked song. Wicked Knopfler. Wicked game.  
"Paris?.."  
"Yes, next Sunday. You'll show me the crêperie."  
"I… I don't think you'll want to go to Paris with me, Anthony. I eat and buy books and ogle Rodin's statues."  
"Sounds like a dream," Crowley shrugged. His shoulders were too sharp for Eli's softness.   
"I'm not a big fan of museums, but I can manage."  
"What would you like to see?"  
"Oh, give me a garden or a forest any day. I'm afraid of heights, so no Eiffel Tower for me."  
"Well… why not, then? I'm too old-fashioned to even like the Eiffel Tower, but I could skip Rodin for Jardín des Plantes."  
"Really? No, I don't want any sacrifices…"  
"It's not a sacrifice. How many times can one admire The Kiss anyway?"  
"I don't like it. Too heteronormative," Crowley winced.  
Like, couldn't Rodin make a statue of a handsome rabbi with a beautiful arse and kind blue eyes and soft voice snatching a kiss from a lanky, gangly pathologist? What's so challenging about that? Well, of course there was a challenge, supplied Rodin's spirit. First, how about that smile, dearest Anthony? You can't make a statue of two lovers kissing and smiling, humans have only one mouth. More than that, I can't make the eyes blue, I'm not a bloody Greek, I don't colour my sculptures. And that dandelion hair? Even I can't make the hair fly like that.   
Too lost in his discussion with Rodin's spirit, Crowley didn't see the dreamy gaze of the rabbi. Fortunately for the rabbi. Fortunately for the sake of the narrative. Terribly unfortunate for those thoughts boiling in Eli's and Anthony's heads.   
"Gewalt!" cursed Anthony.  
"What's wrong?"  
"Oh, nothing. Just… lost in thought. What would you like for dinner? Or is it too much?"  
"No, it's perfect. Just perfect," said Eli.  
Whatever that was, whatever he could have with Anthony, he would take it gladly.


	5. Mother knows best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think I shouldn't write summaries because nothing ever happens in this fic... But we'll, Crowley has an enlightening chat with his mom, Eli calls him up to the Torah. Everything is fluffy and covered in chocolate angst

Anathema walked into Crowley's office and found her esteemed colleague at his microscope, perfectly organised slides forming differently sized piles next to him. He looked strange, which was probably due to the fact he wasn't wearing his glasses.  
On second thought, it had nothing to do with glasses. After all, Crowley's eyes were hidden by the microscope.  
"What are you wearing?" asked Dr Device.  
"Good day to you too, Dr Device," answered Crowley eyes deep in someone's ependymoma (Anathema knew because she had come closer and could see the notes.)  
"Benign," Crowley replaced the microscope with the glasses and made a note.  
"So, what are you wearing?"  
Crowley was wearing the usual: tight black jeans, black boots that had not been made for walking but Dr Crowley did just that, tight black shirt with long sleeves and over the shirt - a knitted vest, dark blue, size S, brown buttons.  
"I'm wearing something, so it's none of your business, Dr Device."  
"Since when do you wear such cosy little things?"  
"Maybe since you humans messed up the planet and I'm getting cold in the middle of September. How was your date? You were uncharacteristically laconic."  
"I'm going to be even more laconic if you don't explain this vest to me."  
"Saw it, liked it, bought it. I think I look good."  
"Anthony, you always look good. But you never wear cosy things. You dress to impress."  
"You seem to be very impressed."  
He rolled to the other end of the office on his chair, took a book and rolled back.  
"How was your date?"  
"It was sweet. Tender and lovely."  
"Glad to hear it."  
"And how was your weekend? What did you do apart from buying some comfortable clothes?"  
"I really don't want to talk about it."  
"And why is that? Oh my, did you ask that rabbi out?"  
"Anathema, do you want to talk about your date?"  
"Not really. It was so sweet, I want to keep it all to myself."  
"Touche. I didn't ask him out, but we spent most of the weekend together, and just like you, I want to keep it all to myself. Time and talking wear things down."  
All through the conversation Crowley continued working, rolled back and forth and avoided looking at Anathema, who was sitting on his desk.  
She smiled, kissed Crowley on the cheek and walked out.  
"Did you need anything?" shouted Crowley, as before, without looking at his friend.  
"No, just wanted to say hi. Was in the area," shouted Anathema from the hall.  
***  
"Mom?"  
"Son?"  
"Listen… I…"  
He heard his mother listening to him, he actually heard her hearing him before he could say anything.  
"Was it good?" she finally asked.  
"Was… perfect."  
"Then why are you so sad?"  
"I don't know what to do."  
"Sweetling, sweet Raziel, there's many a book about what to do, and no book, including Jane Austen, can tell you what to do. Come on, even Lord Goring didn't know what to do."  
"He proposed."  
"After how much time of incessant flirting and behaving like a complete adorable idiot?"  
"So what should I do?"  
"Go with the flow, don't forget to ask questions and for permission."  
"I'm afraid to ask for permission to do what I want to do."  
"Well, asking for a kiss might wait, I suppose."  
"I'm afraid to ask for a kiss. If he doesn't want it, I'll lose his friendship."  
"Then wait. Go with the flow."  
"We are going to Paris on Sunday. For crepes."  
"If you go to Paris, you may ask for a kiss, and then blame Paris."  
"I won't."  
"Listen, son, I explicitly forbid you to helplessly yearn. Do something. There is so much kindness in you, show it."  
"And if he never loves me?"  
"Then you'll have a friend, and your beloved will have the best of friends. You are not a boy, Raziel, you are an adult, and I bet I saw a silver hair in your head the other day. You are no Werther, dear. You are a much older Goethe. Take time, breathe, be your best self. Only an idiot would ignore it."  
"Love you, mom."  
"Of course you do. I'm your mom, Raziel. I gave birth to you specifically for that purpose."  
***  
There was a Kohen, and there was a Levi. Eli looked at Crowley, who was looking into his Pentateuch pensively, bright kippah on his head and huge tallit around his shoulders. Eli took a deep breath.  
"Let him arise, Raziel, son of Abraham and Ela, the third."  
He watched Anthony stir, look around helplessly, maybe even in search of that Raziel. Crowley had never had a father, he mentioned it once, so Abraham was a symbolic father, like it has forever been customary for the converts.  
Raziel got up, people smiled at him and frowned at his hips and dark glasses, so on the way Crowley took his sunglasses off and by the time he reached the bimah, he lifted his gaze. Whoever bullied Crowley into considering his eyes eery deserved something… bad. They were bright yellow, honey, molten gold, morning sun, the last rays of sunset.  
Crowley took his place and recited the blessing. The cantor did the Torah reading. Crowley recited the second blessing.  
"Next time, I want to do the reading too," he smiled at Eli, hiding his eyes again, and mouthed: "Thank you."  
Eli forgot himself but remembered that he still had to bless Raziel before he could return back to his place.  
By far, that was Eli's happiest shacharit in years.  
***  
"I thought," said Crowley slithering next to Eli, "that if… no… not that… I mean… oh, forget about it."  
He gloomily looked into his empty glass, took a glimpse at the table and sighed.  
"Are we still going to Paris tomorrow?" asked Eli, suddenly courageous.  
"Oh, absolutely, unless you changed your mind and whatever…"  
"I didn't."  
"You didn't! Thank HaShem."  
"Why do we never talk during the week, Anthony?"  
"You don't have my number, and I don't have yours, because my mother is right, I'm an idiot."  
"We'll have to fix that."  
"Where do you eat lunch?" asked Crowley, and apparently it took all of his strength because immediately after he sank onto a chair.  
Eli thought about his less than inviting fridge. Then he thought about a family, the oldest members of his congregation, whose granddaughter's bat mitzvah, or rather the Shabbat before that, prevented Eli from calling up Raziel. They had always welcomed him in their home, and practically adopted him. He loved visiting them, but right now nothing could appear worse (lunch-wise) than eating with them.  
"I really hoped to eat with you again. You are a marvelous cook."  
There was a blinding light filling the synagogue… Oh no, it was just Crowley combusting into a smile, nay, a grin.  
"I'd love it! I made kreplach! With spinach! And with salmon. And mandelbrot. And some vegan chicken soup, don't dismiss it just yet, it's delicious."  
"Can't wait to taste it," Eli laughed, and Crowley jumped up.  
On their way to Crowley's apartment Eli had the pleasure of listening to a very frantic but endearing lecture about all sorts of vegan substitutes. Crowley allowed himself fish and eggs once a week, for Shabbat honouring purposes.  
Lunch turned into wine, wine turned into tea, three stars made an appearance, Eli said the Havdalah, Crowley made shakshuka for dinner and drove Eli back to his flat.  
Neither wanted to go, and neither could admit it. Moreover, neither could see that the other wanted exactly the same thing.  
So they just stood in front of the door and kept talking. To make matters worse they somehow ended up talking about Joseph.  
"I have this theory," the rabbi was saying, "that Joseph was agender, divinely so. Everyone saw in them what they could see, but I think only Jacob saw in them the reminder of that strange night fight, of that burning sensation of divine presence. Besides, Jacob wasn't that masculine himself. He grew up dwelling in tents, with women, he was smart, cunning even, the true child of his mother."  
"I love it," said Crowley, breathlessly and yearningly. "I used to think Joseph was born a girl and raised as a boy to spare her Dinah's fate."  
"Oh… Oh, I think that's beautiful. Very… Shakespearean, if I may insert an anachronism here."  
"Why the hell is it so late?" screamed Crowley out of the blue.  
"Pardon?"  
"Sorry, fuck, shit, damn it all!" Crowley even turned around in frustration.  
"What is the matter, my dear?"  
"It's late, Eli, and we have a morning train to catch, and I really, ridiculously like talking to you, and I don't know what to do! Better call mom," he added with a self-derogatory laugh.  
"I see nothing wrong with seeking advice of the elders, especially mothers."  
"You never speak about yours, Eli."  
"She died a long time ago, I barely remember her."  
"So sorry to hear it…"  
"Anyway, as you were saying, it's late and we have a train to catch and…"  
"Stay with me."  
"Anthony?"  
"I mean, my apartment is closer to the station, and I have a guest room, and breakfast."  
"Still a demon, then."  
"Yes, quite, it gets worse, I think it's viral. So?"  
"I don't want to impose…"  
"I'm inviting you, you can't impose. For the record, you can never impose."  
"I'm… I'm going up to pack some things."  
"Really? Thank you! I'm waiting here."  
He got back into the car and looked at the steering wheel for courage.  
Then he heard a knock on his window and saw Eli, flustered and nervous. So obviously he jumped out of the car.  
"What's wrong?"  
"Nothing, dear. It's just… it seems unfair if you stay here. Come up with me. I'll let you browse my library."  
"And you call me demon!"


	6. Hath not a Jew eyes?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: some minor antisemitism. Other than that, fluff, a failed trip to Paris and relatively bad ass Eli

The less said about the following night, the better, mostly because there's nothing to say. They drove to Crowley's flat, Crowley proved to be exceedingly organised, because not only the guest room was always in standby, it was also clean and had a lovely plant. Taking good care of it must have been the main reason the room was on standby and clean.  
They fell asleep, or rather Crowley fell asleep, and his rabbi just stared at the plant caressing its long thin leaves.  
***  
One might be tempted to spare the reader the utter shame that the trip to Paris turned out to be, but particularly this one finds it endearing when mutually attracted people feel ashamed and embarrassed in front of each other. Love, the everyday love that has no anniversaries but involves a lot of communication before it evolves into mind reading, might as well be defined as being fully comfortable in front of each other in any given circumstances.  
But yes, the trip was a disaster.  
Of course it was raining cats and dogs, of course, Eli's favourite crêperie had been forced out and replaced by Starbucks, of course they brought no umbrella… Or did they?  
Dr Crowley pulled a small umbrella from one of his pockets that must have been related to either TARDIS or Mary Poppins' bag and with a shy smile opened it. He had to pull the rabbi closer to him, but… why not. The rabbi didn't seem to mind.  
"I'm so very sorry, my dear."  
"Don't be! Eli, it's fine. We are British, we know how to queue and how to survive any weather. Now, if you hold the umbrella for just a few moments, I'm going to find us a place to eat and then we'll go to… which museum do you prefer?"  
Eli took the umbrella, his fingers brushed gently against Crowley's and as a result his brain was forced out and replaced by Starbucks.  
From the window of Starbucks Eli could see Anthony calling someone and getting them a taxi at the same time.  
"Bonjour Matan, c'est Anthony. Comment vas-tu? Je suis à Paris maintenant, et nos plans ont été ruinés par la pluie, alors... Non, je ne vais pas passer et regarder ces belles biopsies, c'est dimanche et je peux bien m'amuser. Dis-moi, est-ce que tu vis toujours dans ce charmant appartement? Bon! Et tous réfrigérateur est-il aussi spectaculaire qu'il l'a toujours été? Oui, je vais préparer le déjeuner, mais je suis ici avec un ami… lors nous arrivons."  
The taxi arrived, and Crowley walked from under the umbrella to open the door for Eli.  
"Get in, Eli."  
Eli obliged, and finally managed to get rid of Starbucks.  
"So," said Anthony, sitting next to him and throwing the address to the driver, "so, Matan is a good Jew, used to be a resident at the Bart, I sort of trained him. He cooks well, but doesn't hold a candle to this moi, and is smart enough to admit it. We'll have a good lunch, a decent company and afterwards we'll go to the Louvre, I think, since it's the biggest bugger of an option. Hey, we can still enjoy ourselves, rabbi, it's fine."  
It indeed was fine, no, it was the finest. Eli found himself resenting the company of another human, but Matan turned out to be an awestruck young man who only ever wanted to watch Crowley cook and hear Crowley talk, and when he discovered that Crowley's friend was a rabbi, he just spent the whole time staring at the two adoringly. He spoke perfect English, of course, which helped a lot, Eli hadn't had any proper practice in years, although Matan had picked up Anthony's tendency to swear every now and then, but it was endearing, hearing Crowley's intonations coming from someone else.  
"Matan, I owe you a very decent bottle of wine."  
"You made this heavenly meal, I don't think you owe me anything, Anthony. Do you have to be vegan, though?"  
"Makes Kashrut a lot easier, but keeps it tricky all the same. Don't you agree, rabbi?"  
Eli recalled how he once had been brave enough to wink at Crowley. He missed that bravery very much, so he just nodded with a proud grin. Pride was a result of having Anthony all to himself for the rest of the afternoon.  
"But you were going to eat crepes, weren't you?"  
"Eli compared my crepes to those in the blessed crêperie, I wanted to know what I'm fighting against. What I'm being compared to. Sure as hell it could never be a summer day!"  
Eli agreed. Crowley was much brighter, gentler and lovelier than any summer day, at least in London. He was very hot, though, but not uncomfortably.  
***  
When they finished their meal, the rain decided to finish raining, out of solidarity, maybe. It was wise enough to finish its heavenly duty gradually, so they could still leave Matan uninvited and Crowley pretended to call a taxi.  
"My dear, you are one handsome bastard," said Eli with a laugh once they were outside.  
"Why, thank you. Still a demon then," replied Crowley.  
The weather got itself together and became properly glorious. The sky turned pink, yellow and blue with a wistful brush of gray here and there. The air was fresh and cool. Eli could only be happier if Crowley could hold his hand, but getting lost in those dreams, Eli absent-mindedly stepped in front of a car, whose owner screamed something obscene and was met with a wave of something even more obscene and explicit when Crowley answered him. He then took Eli's hand and looked at him strictly.  
"Rabbi, we haven't even had any wine. Do I have your word that you won't try to kill yourself again?"  
"Absolutely, my dear. So sorry…"  
"And stop apologizing."  
He left Eli's hand, which made Eli reconsider his promise, but Crowley quickly replaced it with his arm hooked around Eli's.  
"I can't trust you anymore," he explained, blushing.  
Also he really liked the feeling of Eli's arm. No comparison to hand, to be sure, but very, very satisfying.  
***  
Crowley was elated. He was ready to fight several giants and cancers. He wanted to bring the world to Eli's feet, so he took him to a lovely old bookshop, and then to a well reviewed crêperie, and then they walked to the station, tired and happy.  
"My dear, you have made this day. I can't thank you enough," said Eli on the train.  
"Don't thank me. As far as I'm concerned it was a joint effort. Give me your phone number."  
***  
When Crowley parked outside of Eli's building, the gates of Hell budged an inch and both men saw an anti-Semitic slur written on the door and a young man running away from it.  
Eli was out of the car the next moment, and yes, he was soft and quiet, but he also belonged to a long, long line of generations who had experienced much worse. And he knew the acoustics of his street, so his voice boomed through the night when he said:  
"Stop."  
As far as the man and Crowley were concerned, God had spoken and was pissed. The man stopped and looked back in fear.  
"Come back," boomed Eli again, and the man did.  
"Is it only this door or have you left your messages anywhere else?"  
"A few other houses," confessed the man.  
"Why? Is it what you think?"  
"Yes!" he spat on the ground, and Crowley made a move to get closer to Eli.  
"No need," said Eli softly. Then he grabbed the man's wrist, opened the door and pulled him inside. Crowley didn't know what to do, so he followed, but Eli returned a moment later, his hand still on the man's wrist, a sponge and a bottle of acetone in his other hand.  
"Clean," said Eli calmly and took a step back.  
"And if you think of running, the police will be here before you make it to the end of the street. We have panic buttons these days. We have to."  
The police car pulled up and an officer rushed to Eli.  
"Good evening, rabbi. Are you alright?" he asked coming closer and looked at the young man cleaning the door.  
"I'm fine. No harm done. Thanks for coming so swiftly, my dear. Now, this young man is repentant and has kindly agreed to repair the damage. I'm sure he'd be happy to show you where and what he had done."  
"I'll take it from here, rabbi," said the officer with a warm and knowing smile. It wasn't the first time, after all.  
The policeman and the man drove away, the door stank but was clean.  
"I'll have to have it painted again," said Eli with an air of distaste.  
"Are you ok, Eli?" asked Crowley.  
"I'm not. But it's just a taste, and a very small one of what used to be… Feels good to be able to do something about it."  
"You are an angel."  
"I'm not," replied Eli angrily. "I'm just too weak and cowardly to beat him to a pulp… and I'm a rabbi, and a Jew. I wouldn't have been either, if I had allowed myself anything like that."  
Crowley was silent.  
"Listen, Raziel, it's late, and you have work tomorrow, but I have some good wine and a washing machine with dryer, so would you terribly mind to stay the night? I'm sure I still have some clothes closer to your size…"  
"Of course, Eli. Anything you want."  
***  
When Crowley walked out of the bathroom wearing Eli's gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt that constantly threatened to expose one of his bony shoulders, Eli was standing in the living room, a prayer book in his hand.  
Crowley came closer and Eli wordlessly moved his hand so that Crowley could read too. There was a silent question in his gesture, so Crowley nodded and stood right beside his friend. In the middle of the Shema their fingers intertwined.  
***  
Eli made a weak attempt to offer Anthony his bed, because his guestroom was just an extension of his library, but Crowley returned to the living room, as Eli was settling to sleep on the sofa, took his hand and pulled him to the bedroom.  
"If you have a sword, you are very welcome to put it between us," said Crowley with a smirk and closed his eyes.  
"Will your plants be alright?" asked Eli timidly.  
"If they know what's good for them," replied Crowley.  
"Good night, Raziel. And thank you."  
"Good night, Eli. And shut up."


	7. Of pines and vegan recipes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And again, nothing happens. I simmer it.

Telemann and Adele didn't mix together well, but the barbarian gnome that ran iTunes couldn't disagree more, and thus Dr Crowley was subjected to "Someone like you" (he had to pull his dark blue vest out of his bag, and yes, he was always carrying it with him), and then to the last part of Telemann's Concerto for recorder and flute. Lovely, lively piece.  
iTunes didn't have any recordings of Eli's voice, though. The slides of heart biopsy had nothing on Eli's broad shoulders, soft white hair, the brilliance of his eyes. The mockingly sunny weather had nothing on Eli's brave vulnerability. Crowley desperately wanted to have met Eli at school, when he was a skinny, yellow-eyed bookworm who shone in every class and was laughed at at every break. No one would ever touch him, of course. He made it clear fairly quickly what his mother did for a living, besides the phrase "I'm going to stick a biopsy needle into a place you didn't know you had" was a miracle maker. If Crowley had felt particularly naughty he would add "and then I'm gonna spread the sample of your accursed tissue so thinly on a slide, you'll be reduced to a cellular level in no time, and everyone will see that you are a coward, on a molecular level". The technicalities proved to be unnecessary, though. At the mention of a needle and sample and tissue any bully turned whiter than the first snow. Didn't spare him those glances, those whispered questions about his eyes. His mother stuck a biopsy needle into a place the headmaster didn't know he had, metaphorically, of course, and Crowley was given permission to wear sunglasses all the time. He instantly became more popular, but some of the girls who tried to flirt with him using any mention of biopsy needles didn't really know what they had been talking about. Crowley had never been interested in girls, and they were happy to listen to his explanations. Being fiercely protected by all the girls in his class was… good. It would have been precious and heartwarming to be protected by that worried voice, that scared courage, that righteous decision to do what had to be done no matter the cost.   
"Hey, could you look at this?" asked Dr Hastur entering Crowley's office.  
Crowley silently took the slide, put it into the microscope.   
"Transplant rejection. Thank you."  
"It doesn't work like that, Crowley, I must say thank you."  
"You are welcome," Crowley returned to the previous slide (lumbar puncture, proved to be a brain aneurysm, as it had been suspected, thank you, next).  
"You are actively pining," said Ela Crowley, who wanted to check on her son and didn't like that he hadn't been answering the phone.  
"Oh, an aneurysm! I knew my gift would come in handy."  
"Yes, thank you."  
"Look at me, Raziel."  
Crowley stirred and couldn't help smiling.  
"What, I can't say it as sweetly as rabbi Eli does?" Ela ran her fingers through her son's long copper hair.  
"I bet I can't touch your hair as sweetly as he does," she remarked with a laugh.  
"He never has," answered Crowley, somewhat sadly.  
"Give him time. He got the name right. I'm happy for you."  
"Happy that I'm actively pining?"  
"The key word is actively. You are active… let me see that slide."  
The good son obliged.  
"Yes, definitely an aneurysm. So active and effective. Good boy, my beautiful son, turning your pining into diagnostics. Love you, dearest."  
She left, and did her best to stay serene until she was outside and could laugh out loud as much as she wanted.  
***  
Phones were wicked. That was Eli's rabbinical opinion. He wanted it immortalized in Talmud. What was he supposed to do? Call or text? Call or text, what was he supposed to say? Certainly not "I dreamed about you, baby, and I ran my fingers down your sharp nose and touched your lips and told you you were mine, my sunrise and my sunset, my Shabbat rest, my very breath". That wouldn't do at all.   
Politeness! Politeness was always good and appropriate.  
No, but he was a rabbi, he had to be empathic. So, what would rabbi Eli like to receive?  
Probably something along the lines of "I dreamed about you, too, and I was your sunset and your sunrise, I was yours". Yes, idiots united, let's print us some T-shirts.   
Sleepy and disheveled, auburn stubble adorning his cheeks and chin, sharp and abrasive enough to hurt, but the pain would be welcome.  
Dear rabbi, could you be somewhat less smitten?  
Could he tell how smitten I am with him from a single glance at my heart's biopsy? Of course, he could.   
"Good morning, Raziel. Thank you again for a wonderful trip and a safe night. Hope you are alright."  
Here, polite, appropriate, squint-and-you-may-notice flirty. Perfect.  
Since phones were wicked, Eli's buzzed mere seconds later.  
"I'm fine. How are you? The trip was indeed fantastic, and the night was safe. Couldn't feel safer anywhere else. What are your plans for the evening?"  
Ehm, well, Eli wanted to read some Nachmanides and pretend he was a serious, studious rabbi.  
"None whatsoever. Why, you had something in mind?"  
Ehm, well, Crowley was open to all suggestions. Mostly, he needed a thorough shopping. He had run out of red lentils and brown lentils and, oh the horror, apples and honey (you, miserable excuse for a vegan, look at you, eating honey; but it's for a high holiday; oh, alright, honey it is).  
"I wanted to go shopping. Ran out of all Rosh Hashanah ingredients."  
Oh, there it came, that terrible inspiration.  
"How about I cook us dinner, and you can work on your drasha?"  
Crowley peacefully (you keep telling yourself that, idiot) resumed his work. Another lumbar puncture. Not an aneurysm. Think harder, grow better, don't bleed.  
"I'd love it."  
Eli sounded, pardon, looked so calm and happy.  
Eli was in fact anxious.   
"I'll make that curry I've been telling you about. I'll pick you up at seven… or do you want to go shopping with me?"  
Dear beautiful Lord in Heaven, he did. My, my, my.   
Dr Crowley texted back an appropriate emoji, having checked it had no heart eyes or anything of the kind. Also, he restrained himself from using any grocery looking emojis. Anathema had told him (she had heard it from her mother) that vegetables and the like were not safe and meant something else.  
***  
In his wildest dreams Eli allowed himself to think of grocery shopping as the height of romance. What could ever compare to walking down the pasta isle with someone you'd rather stand under the chuppah with?  
Crowley had all his recipes opened on his phone, which often resulted in Eli standing guard over the trolley as Crowley rushed somewhere else for… something else. Indian spices agreed with Eli when consumed, but certainly not when he had to name them.  
"I just want an ordinary cracker with ordinary cream cheese," said Eli dreamily.  
"No, no cheese, that's the whole deal. That's the spirit. Therein lies the rub," remarked Crowley looking very Danish indeed in that he was delicious, pardon, looked delicious.  
"You are alright with pieces of living breathing people but cheese is too much?" asked Eli, a bit frustrated but very happy indeed.  
"Living breathing people are not forcefully inseminated to give me another biopsy. Also, I don't eat biopsies, whatever Anathema tells you."  
Eli laughed and didn't notice the puddle of smitten goo at his feet.  
"What do you do with the biopsies anyway?"  
"They are carefully stored. I have several chests of drawers filled with brains, hearts and a tiny bit of anything else. You have no idea how wickedly beautiful a tumor can be. I don't like what it does, but the geometry of it… oh, Eli, the curves alone are…"  
Crowley briefly forgot the simile he wanted to use because Eli walked forward to a display of M&M's, letting the good doctor admire the rabbi's arse.  
"These are not vegan, Eli."  
"And neither am I."  
Well, if you think about it that way, the very diligent vegan Dr Crowley didn't mind some meat, of course only in case of the meat being able to walk freely and happily… probably not to walk. Or to sit. Or whatever.   
"And how dare you buy eggs, Anthony?"  
Oh, call me Raziel again, make me a proper Jew, rabbi, oh yes, just like that, shut up.  
"It's for challah. And your shakshuka. Behave yourself, Eli, or I'll cook nothing."  
"And fish!"  
"I eat fish on Shabbat!"  
"So, you can't be a righteous prick!" Eli laughed again, and hey, Mozart, have you heard that? Your piano sonatas have nothing on that glorious sound, you arse obsessed sweet genius.  
"Am I not allowed to have some brisket?"  
"Oh, whatever you want," Crowley smiled like an idiot.  
"Raziel, you are spoiling me."  
"And you are just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing, Eli."  
"I'm doing my best, dear."  
"Oh, you have no idea, rabbi."  
***  
At the cashier's:  
"How about we run away to Rome next week, after Rosh Hashanah?" asked Eli, because he frankly was very drunk on Crowley.  
"What, like Goethe? Totally. Let's do that."  
***  
"I sincerely hope you will be here at my Rosh Hashanah dinner, Eli. It implies a long walk after the service, but when did it scare you?"  
"Oh, I'd love to, dear. Who else is coming?"  
Please, tell me no one else is coming.  
"Anathema, my mom, Rabbi Leah, Anathema's gentleman nurse friend."  
Wasn't too bad, to be honest. Besides, there would be a rather long walk, just the two of them. Friends do that, right?  
Friends should never make such curry.   
"I'm going to make you some cocoa and do the dishes. You write your drasha, rabbi," said Crowley taking away the plates.  
***  
"Raziel, you've been drinking too much to be able to drive me back."  
"Well… I have a dryer too, and the guest room is always ready," suggested Crowley with a wicked smile.  
"I'll call a taxi. I shouldn't stay," said Eli.   
"If you say so."  
"You must need your space, Anthony."  
***  
He texted, though:  
"I'm home, Raziel. Thank you for another magnificent evening. I'm looking forward to Rosh Hashanah."  
***  
Eli took his place at the bimah and looked around. He found Crowley's glasses, and Crowley took his sunglasses off.   
Eli smiled, happy and calm.   
"I want to talk about clarity. Isn't it something we all crave for? Isn't it something we desperately need? Don't we all want to be sure that what we're doing is something that should be done, that will be welcomed? I personally want just that, the clarity, knowing I'm not utterly lost, knowing that I understood everything right and acted on my understanding.   
Yet, each year we read about Abraham being ready to sacrifice his most beloved son because he believes that it is indeed what was asked of him. We never see anything like that again in Tanakh, no one else is tested like Abraham. Why? I think the most important thing here is the fact that G-d never speaks to Abraham again after the Akeda. Why is that? My guess is G-d never asked anything like that of Abraham. Countless Jews killed their children to spare them the torture, the rape, the despair. No angel came to intervene. My guess is we are all given the free will. From the tiniest particle to a cluster of galaxies, we are given the free will. We abuse that divine gift too often. Abraham, though, didn't abuse it. Abraham was just senile. He was old, he was delusional, his numerous brain cells, his complex biochemistry played a cruel joke on him. His brain told him that he needed to sacrifice Isaac, his brain had forgotten that his Lord G-d would never ask for such a sacrifice. That was the moment G-d had brought the chaos theory into existence. The equation is too complex, too ineffable for our understanding, and if a voice inside your head persuades you to hurt, then it's not G-d's voice, it's your complex system glitching, and inevitably so, because we are complex. It's frustrating, it requires a lot, but I do believe that this is how it is. Each choice is difficult, each choice is a trial. Yet, it should always be clear that violence is not divine. Violence is a glitch. Acceptance and empathy, on the other hand, form a complex system out of complex systems. It's infinitely complex and infinitely irritating. It's always easier to give an eye for an eye, but the meaning of this equation is that punishment has to fit the crime. If the perpetrator of a crime still knows that what they are doing is a glitch, than their own brain will punish them sufficiently, and if they don't, then they are sick and in need of thorough investigation, which is again too complex and even more irritating.   
So I'm asking for clarity. I'm asking for being brave enough to see that the love of my life is indeed the love of my life, to be able to tell them so, to be able to act on it. I'm asking for clarity to see that I may fail and err, that I may be wrong. I'm asking for an ability to see when I'm wrong.   
We are given an example of an error, of painful lack of clarity, and in this case we have to contemplate and think and argue, although it's the essence of Judaism. We are supposed to be questioning, we are supposed to value our opinions. Nevertheless we have to remember that violence is always wrong, hurting is always wrong. It's an axiome, it's something we are given. Think and doubt and question, but never hurt, especially if you don't understand it. We could have been given a perfect hero, a wise man who never made a mistake, but we were given someone fragile, someone senile and a bit crazy, which to me means that we are not supposed to be perfect. The only requirement is not to hurt, to treasure our loved ones, to give up divinity, if it implies being kinder and gentler to those we love. Chag sameach."  
Eli nodded (such a fantastic nod of head, oh that head had been made to nod) and stepped down. For once, although he had no way of knowing it, his prayers had been answered, and although he couldn't see it, Raziel looked at him with an idiotic smile on his lips. He would most definitely have sacrificed himself for Eli, and gladly so.  
***  
"I loved your drasha."  
"Thank you, my dear. I think it was too preachy, but alright, I was too full and too lazy when I wrote it."  
"Are you blaming my cooking for your perceived failure?"  
"I'm not, yet it's a good option."  
"You know, Eli, I have always thought that Abraham had Alzheimer's. Ever since I learned what Alzheimer's was."  
"I'm ever so happy to agree with you, Raziel. What did you cook?"  
"The round challah, mashed potatoes, roasted pepper hummus, broccoli with cashews, date truffles, lentil sweet potato soup, artichoke soup, roasted carrots with coriander, roasted apples with honey cream…"  
"Have you worked during this week, my dear?"  
"Of course. But I had to do something when I had no biopsy to distract me from the gaping hole of your absence in my space."  
"That's unfair, Raziel. I texted you every day."  
"Do you still want to go to Rome with me, rabbi?"  
"Absolutely! Although…"  
"Yes, Eli?"  
"I would like to go to a… smaller, quieter place."  
"Do you want me to research the subject?"  
"I only ever trust you to do it, Raziel."  
Eli smiled and looked at Anthony. Yes, here was that clarity. He loved him, he was in love with him, and it was beautiful. Crowley was beautiful.  
***  
Ela opened the door and laughed. Anathema and Newt held hands and Rabbi Leah was looking at the table with some sort of awe.  
"Razi, you've outdone yourself."  
Rabbi Leah obviously wanted to taste some of roasted carrots.  
"Then, let's sit and eat," decided Crowley. His mother sat at the head of the table, rabbi Leah in front of her, Anathema and Newt on the side of the table, and Anthony and Eli on the other.


	8. Alegro más non troppo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ehm... It has Tolstoy. A shitload of Tolstoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like Tolstoy that much

"I have two, no three theories regarding this shameless meal," Rabbi Leah was the first to break the silence of the food coma everyone descended into.  
Newt made a noise that could be roughly interpreted as "I don't know how you can still speak".  
"Pray share," asked Crowley, half sure he would regret the request.  
"Well, first of all, despite how delicious the food is, it's all awfully healthy, which explains how you manage to squeeze yourself into these jeans of yours."  
Crowley was just about to get up, or rather he had gotten up and was about to push back his chair, so the twist of his body pulled the hem of the shirt up, and bared his murderously sharp hip bone. Crowley, luckily, couldn't see it, but Eli quite carelessly gave him a once over. No one noticed, by the way - food coma.  
"Excuse me," said Ela, "but these jeans are mine. I gave all my young jeans to Anthony, so that he gets intimately acquainted with the sexism that it pockets in women's clothes. Also, they fit. Also, we are subjecting my dear boy to shameless ogling, which women face far too often, and he is enlightened enough to spare him that pain."  
Crowley suddenly decided that he didn't need to get up and clean the table. Had he known that he robbed Eli of the sweet chance to ogle him, he might have reconsidered, but he didn't know and interpreted the sigh Eli gave when he returned to his seat as a bad omen.  
"Second?" he suggested meekly into his wine glass. Eli handed him his shades exactly as he began looking for them.  
"Second concerns rabbi Eli."  
Rabbi Eli stirred and quickly looked around, probably searching for an escape.  
"You, Eli, must be a far better rabbi than I am, because no meal I have blessed has ever tasted that good."  
"I agree," replied Crowley smugly and tenderly.  
"I don't," said Ela. "Anthony just cooks well."  
"Well is an understatement," Eli weighed in. Pink suited Crowley.  
"Third is that either you are so happy in love that you don't sleep and therefore have the opportunity to cook once your exhausted lover is asleep, or that you're so unhappy in love that you can't sleep and cook. How is that?"  
"Leah, you are shameless," Ela glared.  
"Might be. So is the dinner," Leah smiled innocently.  
"I think there is no such thing as unhappy love," said Eli slowly and pensively.  
"How is that?" Anathema woke up. "What about Werther? Romeo and Juliet?"  
"Love, when it's indeed love, not an obsession, is always happy, Dr Device. The loved one may make you unhappy, but the very nature of love is happiness. You can't regret loving someone, you can regret the circumstances, the behavior, but never the love itself. "Entreat me not to leave you, Or to turn back from following after you; For wherever you go, I will go; And wherever you lodge, I will lodge; Your people shall be my people, And your God, my God. Where you die, I will die, And there will I be buried. The Lord do so to me, and more also, If anything but death parts you and me." Ruth is happy in her love, resilient, stubborn even, but she never complains about following her love."  
"So, you believe, Eli, that Ruth loved her mother-in-law sexually?" asked Leah.  
"I don't know. We are far too complex, sometimes it's difficult to determine, to put a label on it. The happiest couples I've met were in love, but they also were each other's best friends, they were each other's family… But yes, Boaz is a complete extra in the book of Ruth," Eli laughed.  
"Can we please change the subject?" begged Crowley.  
"No, I don't think we can," replied Ela.  
Crowley growled, took a pomegranate from a plate placed in the middle of the table, and began… dissecting it. Too careful to face his own feelings or consider talking about them once they were alone, he turned his attention to Newt. He had never taken a closer look at the nurse, but now he could see why Anathema liked him so much - he had the air of a person impeccably kind, incapable of causing any harm, that's why he was made fun of and mocked, yet the patients adored him. Newt would literally never hurt a fly. Newt would never make fun of anyone. Newt would never make Anathema feel bad about herself, and Newt would adapt for her, unconsciously and unconditionally, without a question. He would be the embodiment of the oath Ruth gave her mother-in-law. Anathema seemed calm and happy next to her boyfriend.   
"Anathema, want to help me with the dishes?" Crowley asked, and she took the hint.  
"He's sweet and kind. A precious human," Crowley muttered to Anathema passing a plate to her for a dry.   
"Yeah, he is. And we sorted it all out. I told him on our first date. He shrugged and said he didn't really care. I thought, sure, in a month you'll regret it. He hasn't."  
"Good for you."  
"What about you?"  
"What about me?"  
"The good rabbi is eating you this very moment with his blue eyes."  
"You are imagining things, Anathema."  
***  
Leah drove on Shabbat and holidays, so she and Ela departed first. Anathema and Newt followed their lead.   
Crowley was watering the plant in Eli's room as a part of his evening routine when he heard a polite cough behind him.  
"Yeah, I'm done, sorry," he began walking to the door and gave Eli a shining grateful smile.  
"Good night, Raziel."  
"Good night, Eli."  
***  
Eli wasn't that much of a sleeper. Actually he slept exactly enough to stay alive and refreshed, no more and no less. That night he couldn't sleep a wink.   
The previous night, the eve of Rosh Hashanah, he spent with his congregation's loneliest and oldest members, and regretted every minute of it. Oh, he knew all too well that Crowley invited him to dinner the first actual holiday because he had told him about the dinner he would have with the lonely old people. He made it a dinner and not lunch because they had to walk back. They didn't talk the night of the Seder because neither of them used the phone on holidays. At least he managed to persuade the young rabbi Michael, his somewhat pupil, to finally overcome his fears and lead the services during the second chag, which implied he could stay the night and not get up at dawn to walk back to the synagogue. By the way, he had forgotten to mention any of it to Crowley. To Anthony. To Raziel.  
Eli got up angrily and was on his way to the kitchen for a cup of tea, when he saw the open door of Crowley's bedroom. Crowley himself sat on his bed, his soft pyjamas and the careful light of the lamp on his nightstand made him look ageless and vulnerable. He was reading.  
The rabbi timidly knocked on the open door, and Crowley looked up.  
"Can't sleep, Eli?"  
"No. Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?"  
"No, I'm fine. Thank you. Come in," he invited Eli with a soft and tender smile. Eli walked in and sat on Crowley's bed.  
"I realised I had forgotten to tell you several important things."  
"Never a good conversation starter, but I'm all ears."  
"When you invited me to dinner, I knew immediately, although you never mentioned it, that you implied this day, not the eve, not the Seder. I knew you implied it, because I knew I had told you about my congregational gathering and it never even occurred to me to think that you might have forgotten. I'm very grateful for it."  
"I… I'm… Ngk… I mean, I'm deliriously glad you trust me that much."  
"Michael would lead the services tomorrow…"  
"As he did this evening, I know. I look at the calendar, you see," Crowley laughed, mischievous sparks in his eyes.  
"You… you take such good care of me, Raziel."  
"Well, it's the least you deserve, Eli, really," said Crowley with a blush and embarrassed cough.  
"What were you reading, my dear?"  
"War and peace". Nothing puts you to sleep better than Russian literature, and nothing gives you gloomier dreams."  
Eli felt playful (and yes, the following was his idea of playful).   
"Would you read it to me?"  
"You must have read it, Eli."  
"Of course. But why don't you refresh my memory?"  
(It might sound preposterous, but for Eli and Crowley it sounded like the dirtiest pillow talk in the existence. Just imagine it, refreshed, glistening memory, all pink and lovely… Aroused yet? You should be.)  
Crowley settled into the pillows, his absurdly long legs rivaling those of Alice after a particularly peculiar drink.   
"All four in one?" asked Eli, settling in next to Crowley.  
(I don't know about you, but four volumes of Tolstoy in one to me sound like the most debauched pornography the internet can provide. Just think about it, four huge volumes of heavy, often angsty, awfully depressing, masterful prose in one thick, barely holding together book… is it hot in here?)  
"Yeah," answered Crowley, fully agreeing with this freak of a bookworm.  
"Why so many bookmarks?"  
(It's getting hotter by the minute, oh, Tolstoy.)  
"It's everything concerning Pierre and Natasha. Or Pierre and Prince Andrew."  
(Sweet baby carpenter from Galilee, it's impossibly hot in here.)  
"Read your favourite piece to me."  
(Too hot. Can't stand it. Fire in my soul.)  
Crowley swallowed.   
(Good boy.)  
"I must admit, I tore the epilogue out and threw it away. I know, terrible, but I can't stand it!"  
"Agreed," whispered Eli looking at Crowley and laughing.  
"Ok, so here's my favourite part," Crowley discovered he needed to clear his throat and then read: "But one thing I beg of you, look on me as your friend; and if you want some help, advice, or simply want to open your heart to someone- not now, but when things are clearer in your heart- think of me.' He took her hand and kissed it. 'I shall be happy, if I am able...' Pierre was confused.  
'Don't speak to me like that; I'm not worth it!' cried Natasha...  
'Hush, hush your whole life lies before you,' he said to her.  
'Before me! No! All is over for me,' she said, with shame and humiliation.  
'All over?' he repeated. 'If I were not myself, but the handsomest, cleverest, best man in the world, and if I were free I would be on my knees this minute to beg for your hand and your love."  
(Oprah is handing down tender, loving orgasms to everyone.)  
"I loved that part too," said Eli quietly. "Read me more."  
(Insatiable hedonist… yes.)  
"For a few seconds they looked silently into each other's eyes, and the distant and impossible suddenly became near, possible, and inevitable," read Crowley obediently, after some thorough searching and remembering that it was in the epilogue, so he had to recite from memory.  
(God, yes! Yes, yes!)  
"It's not about Pierre, Natasha or Andrew," remarked Eli.  
"But it's still sweet, isn't it?" answered Crowley, his voice suddenly much lower than usual.  
(Hoarse, I wanted to say hoarse. Like from a period of pleasant screaming into your lover's mouth.)  
"Keep going."  
(Such insatiable hedonist…)  
"Prince Andrei went up to her with lowered eyes. "I loved you the moment I saw you. May I hope?""  
"Such an idiot," said Eli with a smile.  
"You think?" asked Crowley avoiding turning his head to face Eli.  
"Of course! Pierre is wonderful, I came to love him dearly, but he was born to love, and Andrew… he was born to be loved, to be worshipped. The poor darling didn't have much love in his life, that's why it was so heartbreaking when he died."  
"It rather was, wasn't it? But I have always preferred Pierre, that shameless hedonist, kind, so impossibly kind it makes him an absolute definition of an idiot."  
"Raziel?"  
"Yes, Eli?"  
"If I were not myself, but the handsomest, cleverest, best man in the world, and if I were free I would be on my knees this minute to beg for your hand and your love," said Eli, tenderly and hopelessly and somehow still happily.  
"Are you… not free?" asked Crowley scarcely believing his ears.  
"I'm not, dearest. I loved you the moment I saw you. May I hope?"  
Crowley choked on something. Probably his tongue.  
"Oh, you beautiful, amazing idiot, darling, the light of my life, you can't, you shouldn't hope, you must know, with utmost certainty… that I'm no match for Tolstoy, but the only thing I truly want is… No, let me think, let me remember… here! "He went down trying not to look long at her, as though she were the sun, but he saw her, as one sees the sun, without looking.""  
"It's not "War and Peace"."  
"No, Eli, it's "Anna Karenina"."  
"I… I've known you for such a short time, and yet, here you are, the closest, the nearest, the dearest person in the world to me."  
Eli moved a bit, placing his head on Crowley's chest and wrapping his arms around Crowley's lanky form.  
"You are the world to me, Raziel."  
"As you are to me, Eli… And I know it's fast, but… let's try, huh? Let's see, let's discover…"  
"Do you have to make me love you more each moment?"  
"Yes, I have to… May I kiss you, Eli?"  
And he said yes.  
He said yes a year later when he returned home and Crowley asked him, stirring the vegan chicken soup, whether Eli wanted to marry him.  
He did.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
